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The building always smelled the same: metal, reheated coffee, and poorly digested haste. Mason had grown used to that industrial perfume of weariness. Endless meetings, reports, pretending to be still when everything in his nature demanded movement, hunt, something to bite.
He smiled.
He always smiled.
That perfect smile that calms humans, disarms bosses, and makes everyone believe everything is under control. But lately there was something gnawing at his focus. Something small. Persistent, like a splinter under the skin.
It all started with the women at work.
The women at work tended to be... “naughty.” Not all of them, of course. Mason wasn’t unfair. Some were kind, professional, normal. Others…
No.
There wasn’t an elegant word for them.
“Bitches” was honest.
“Whores” worked too.
Too much makeup, too confident, convinced the world owed them attention just because they knew how to walk in heels. Mason swore, with lupine pride, that Annalise’s partner was a thousand times prettier than those women who thought they were models. But there they were, thinking themselves important, indispensable.
The real chaos began when one of those women decided Blake was a challenge.
Blake was... impossible to hate. Cheerful, charismatic, dangerously likable. The kind of man who made friends even in the bathroom line. Mason was convinced he’d rule the world if he ever set his mind to it.
And well...
She tried everything.
And it was glorious watching her fail.
Blake stepped aside politely. Repeated that he was married. Showed his ring with pride, like a trophy. He wasn’t about to destroy his marriage to Marcella for anything that smelled that cheap.
Until one day, it happened.
A lipstick kiss.
Stamped on his shirt.
The woman managed to leave her lipstick mark on Blake’s shirt. A fake kiss, red, insolent. Even Blake didn’t know how it ended up there. Maybe when she pretended to fall and he, being the decent man he was, caught her.
Yeah. The universe just wanted drama.
—Do you think Marcella will kill me?—
Blake asked, on the verge of collapse.
He said it like he was already signing divorce papers, losing imaginary assets, and crying over children he didn’t yet have.
Mason looked at him, impassive.
—No—
He said.
—You’re innocent in this crime. Just explain it to her.—
Blake looked at him distrustfully. Pulled out his phone.
—What are you doing?—
Mason asked.
—Calling Jasmyn. You’re terrible at emotional advice.—
The werewolf felt offended.
Deeply offended.
But that was only part of it.
The other part was that Blake survived.
More than that: he was happy.
Marcella believed him.
What no one expected was that days later, Marcella would show up at the office. Pink lipstick, intense, determined on her lips.
She crossed the place like a queen in enemy territory, chin up, ignoring all those women who, according to her, stole men. And in front of everyone, in front of them, she kissed Blake. A long kiss. Slow, deliberately possessive. Then another. And another.
Until finally, she left one last kiss on the fabric of his shirt, exactly where the stain had been before.
A silent, brutal message:
“This is mine.”
“Cry, bitch.”
“You’re never taking him from me.”
Blake looked dazed. Happy, completely undone.
—I just came to visit—
Marcella murmured, with a sweetness that fooled no one.
Before leaving, she tapped his nose.
—See you at home, sweetheart.—
The laughter didn’t take long.
—Blake’s wife really knows how to mark territory.—
Mason laughed with them.
But his wolf... watched.
And thought, without shame, what it would be like if Kieran did something like that to him.
He thought about visible kisses. About marks, about shameless provocation.
What?
He was a werewolf. He had a right to weird fantasies.
But really.
The worst part was that the fantasies didn’t fade. They got worse.
Because in the days that followed, Marcella came back. Distracted kisses, casual only in appearance, on the cheek, on the neck. Too close to the mouth.
Different lipstick every time. Bright colors. Visible, deliberate marks. Pure provocation.
Mason laughed with everyone, genuinely happy for them. Smiled. Applauded the scene in front of the employees.
But his wolf didn’t.
His wolf watched. Imagined. The idea dug into him, dangerous, one he no longer knew how to pull out of his head.
The images followed him to the cabin, to the shower, to the bed. Where Kieran slept on his side, expressionless even in dreams, as if the world couldn’t fully touch him. Mason watched him for a long time, with that fierce devotion only wolves understand.
—Ridiculous—
He murmured.
They were married.
Since they’d bonded, Kieran had thrown any jealous scene out the window. He’d been jealous when he was younger, yes. Dramatic, even. But now... now he trusted.
He truly trusted him.
He said it all the time.
—Why make scenes?—
He’d said once.
—I know you love me.—
Mason should’ve felt good.
His inner wolf writhed, furious, hungry.
Because Mason was still jealous, brutally jealous. He scorched anyone who smelled of bad intentions with a look. Gave warnings that didn’t sound like warnings, no one crossed that line twice.
And Kieran just laughed.
Looked at him with those calm eyes, bright, dangerously sure.
That was the problem.
Mason needed, urgently, to see his vampire jealous, dark, provoked. Like before, like when he looked at him as if the world could steal him away.
But when marks appeared on his clothes, foreign perfumes, shameless kisses... Kieran only raised an eyebrow.
—Are you that handsome?—
Sarcasm, affection, laughter.
Then he washed the clothes.
Oh, God.
Mason’s wolf was dying.
They were married. But the desire wouldn’t leave.
And Mason thought, with absolute melodrama, that he’d probably cry if he didn’t get what he wanted.
Because love could also be that: a desperate wolf and a dangerously calm vampire playing to see who would fall first.
A month passed.
A fucking month.
Kieran wasn’t oblivious to his partner’s silences. He never had been. He’d known Mason from before he learned to keep quiet, from when pain slipped out of him as growls, from lost fights and won ones with bites, from a love that didn’t come easy, but bleeding.
That’s why he knew.
He knew that every time he saw a lipstick stain on Mason’s shirt, his wolf was waiting for something.
A complaint.
A scene.
Maybe a “who was it?” said through clenched teeth.
Should it bother him?
Of course he didn’t like it. No one enjoys seeing foreign marks on what they love. But he also knew, with absolute certainty, that Mason would never cheat on him. Never. Everything had an explanation.
And Kieran had seen the women at his partner’s workplace: clumsy attitudes, lingering looks, hunger without elegance.
He understood everything.
What he didn’t understand was... what the hell Mason expected from him.
—Does he want me to throw a jealous scene?—
He asked one afternoon.
He said it calmly, leaning against the café table, as if he were asking for extra sugar. Across from him, Marcella watched him with amused attention. She had come to visit him; the weather was pleasant, the atmosphere light. Kieran had explained his favorite idiot’s recent behavior with precision.
Cella looked at him like she was tying invisible threads together.
—Mmm... a woman from work—
She began.
—You know. Literally left her disgusting lipstick on my... husband’s clothes.—
She paused briefly, savoring the word.
—Blake explained everything to me. Just a clever woman thinking she could make me jealous.—
—And?—
Kieran asked, tilting his head.
—A marriage needs trust. I trusted him. But I also wanted to make something clear—
Marcella said, smiling.
—So I went to visit him at work for a whole week. Lipstick. The strongest one I had. And I kissed him in front of everyone.—
The wink was shameless.
Kieran smiled.
—Wow. A real tamer.—
They laughed.
Then the vampire raised an eyebrow, slow, calculated.
—So... is it what I’m thinking?—
Cella smiled softly, dangerous.
—Obviously.—
Kieran didn’t answer right away. He thought of Mason. Of his contained intensity, of the way he loved like the world might end tomorrow. Of the frustrated wolf, craving jealousy like someone craving a wound just to prove they mattered.
—Interesting—
He murmured.
Leaning forward, he added:
—Give me the reddest lipstick you have.—
Marcella didn’t hesitate.
And as he slipped the lipstick into his jacket pocket, Kieran felt something like thirst.
Intimate thirst.
Because he wasn’t going to give Mason the dramatic scene his wolf was screaming for. He was going to give him something better.
Something slow.
Close.
Irrefutable.
After all, one must know exactly how to provoke... and when to bite.
The next day, Kieran entered Mason’s work area wearing his usual black jacket. The same black that absorbed light, the same impenetrable expression. The same silent stride that never announced his presence... but was always felt.
Mason sensed him before seeing him. It was always like that. The scent first, the pressure in his chest after. The wolf bristling as if someone had lowered the temperature of the world just for him.
—Everything okay?—
He asked, smiling.
The automatic smile. The usual one. But his pulse sped up without permission.
Kieran didn’t usually visit him. Not for lack of desire, but because they both knew being together while working was an elegant way to lose control.
—Conjugal visit—
The vampire replied.
The voice neutral. Too neutral.
—Or do I need permission now?—
The werewolf laughed, nervous. He didn’t know why. Or maybe he did, but his mind refused to admit it yet.
—Of course not...—
He replied, glancing around.
The place was crowded. Too much noise, too many eyes.
He sighed.
—Come with me. This isn’t a good place for... this.—
He didn’t know what this was. But his body did.
He led him to the break room. Empty, silent. Closed the door carefully, more by instinct than conscious intent.
And when he turned.
His heart nearly stopped.
Because minutes ago, Kieran’s lips hadn’t been painted an intense red. Because that look... that damn mischievous look... hadn’t been there before.
The vampire was applying lipstick in front of a small mirror. Calmly, precisely. Like he knew exactly what he was doing.
The wolf froze. His body understood before his mind.
—Kieran...—
He murmured.
—Shut up—
He replied, without looking at him directly.
Still watching himself in the mirror.
—Just look at me.—
The red was brutal against his pale skin. It wasn’t flirtatious. It was a declaration of war.
Mason swallowed.
—Is this what you imagine?—
Kieran asked directly, without shame.
—I thought you were a masochist just because you like when I bite you... but every day I discover more interesting tastes in you.—
The wolf took a step forward. Just one.
—Fuck... you’re killing me.—
Unnecessary drama.
Hormones howling.
—You have no idea how much I want this.—
Kieran smiled faintly. Put the lipstick away. Closed the mirror.
He didn’t kiss him immediately.
He rested his forehead against Mason’s. They breathed the same air, the world shrinking to that minimal space between them.
When their lips met, it was intense, urgent. Charged with something more dangerous: possession.
The lipstick smeared.
Stained Mason’s cheek.
The line of his jaw.
The collar of his shirt.
Kieran left marks without hurry. As if claiming something that had never been in doubt.
Desperate hands, but no rush. Contained fire, desired closeness.
When they pulled apart, Mason was smiling crookedly. His eyes barely golden.
—You were always cruel—
He murmured.
—And you’re dramatic—
The vampire replied, wiping a smudge with his thumb.
—You wanted this.—
Then he kissed the fabric of his shirt.
Left a clear mark.
Mason was covered in red, face, neck... dignity in shambles.
He laughed softly, resting his forehead against Kieran’s.
—My wolf is going to write a Greek tragedy about this.—
Kieran smiled.
—Another kissing session?—
He asked with fake innocence.
The werewolf nodded, enthusiastic, defeated, satisfied.
And as Kieran wrapped him in again, he felt that familiar thirst. Not for blood.
For love done right.
It was break time.
Blake was about to open the door when it opened by itself...
Kieran stepped out of the break room as if nothing had happened. Black jacket intact. Perfect posture. Expression unreadable, except for that faint gleam in his eyes... the look of someone who knew exactly what he’d done.
He paused for a second when he saw him.
—Hi, Blake...—
Nothing more.
No explanation.
No apology.
No hurry.
Then he turned around and disappeared down the hallways, silent, elegant, with that insulting calm of a satisfied predator.
Blake blinked.
Once.
Twice.
—...What?—
And he went into the break room.
The break room looked like the scene of an emotional crime.
Mason was on the floor, on his back, staring at the ceiling like he’d seen God... and God had flirted with him.
The shirt was a disaster. Red lipstick on his cheek, his neck, his clothes. Hair messed up. The expression: absolute idiot.
Idiot in love.
Idiot who had fulfilled a fantasy.
Idiot no longer mentally present on this astral plane.
—WHAT HAPPENED TO YOU!?—
Blake demanded.
Mason slowly lifted one hand.
—Nothing...—
He murmured, with a beatific smile.
And let his arm fall.
Still smiling.
—Shit...—
Blake whispered.
—We lost him.—
The lipstick was still there. Visible, provocative. Impossible to ignore.
Some employees who were also starting their break peeked in through the door.
—Did he get attacked too?—
One of them joked.
—Clearly—
Another added.
—My condolences.—
Blake dropped to his knees next to Mason, clutching his head like he’d just been informed of a national tragedy.
—MY FRIEND! HE WAS A GOOD MAN!—
He wailed dramatically.
—HE HAD SO MUCH TO LIVE FOR! SO MANY UNNECESSARY MEETINGS TO SUFFER THROUGH!—
Mason laughed. Low, happy. The wolf purred like a satisfied idiot.
Meanwhile, in a quiet hallway, Kieran walked calmly, lips immaculate, pulse steady, carrying that dangerous satisfaction of someone who never makes scenes...
Because he doesn’t need to.
But he won anyway.
Because he didn’t need exaggerated jealousy. He just had to know exactly how to mark territory.